I brought my Scottish bad boy, Cedric MacKinnon, with me. I’m sure you’re much more interested in what a 6’ 3” bisexual vampire has to say, so I’ll let him speak.
DV: So Cedric, tell your readers a little about yourself--and do try to behave.
CM: My dear, I'm your slave, you know that. I only do what your wicked brain contrives. You dreamed me up.
DV: You hatched out of my head like Athena. I have little control over your escapades. Be a good boy, and maybe I'll write some erotic adventures for you.
CM: Promise? I'd like that. So, what’s this about a tart running this blog? I’m always pleased to meet a fellow tart. Oh, that’s a Python thing. I love Python too.
So, here goes, I was born in Scotland. My parents died when I was little. I grew up in a children’s home and ran away to London when I was fifteen with dreams of becoming a rock star--needless to say, not a great idea. I went on the streets and made my living selling the only thing I could.
To make a long story short, rent boys in London have a 33% HIV infection rate, and I became a statistic. I turned to playing my guitar in the underground to supplement what I got from the government, and one night I encountered this lovely Indian man--or so I thought. Raj made me the man I am today. That is to say, a vampire courtesan turned assassin. Complete sociopath, Raj.
On the bright side, I’m a musician and play the guitar as well as Indian instruments. My prized possession is a vintage Stratocaster. I love all kinds of rock music. My favorite artist of all time is David Bowie. Flashy clothes, fast cars and the latest electronic gadgets are my weakness—and beautiful lovers. I believe in spreading the wealth, so to speak.
DV: Talk about your former line of work.
CM: Must I? You just love dredging all that up.
I’m an adept of the ancient arts, which is an Immortyl temple artist in service to the Goddess Kali, but adepts are used as courtesans in political intrigues by the Chief Elder, Kalidasa. Usually a total drag-- except for the singing and dancing. No one does a blues riff on a sitar like me. Music is my true passion.
Too many uncongenial lovers, too many beds, too little rest. Lord Liu was the exception. Liu Li Cheng is a gentleman and knows how to treat a boy right.
My official duty was to serve the Goddess and bestow Shakti’s blessings through an elaborate tantric sex ritual. During my training in the ashram, I told my guru, Sandhya, “I’ve been called many things in my time, but never a conduit of divinity”. She wasn’t amused and hit me on the back of the head with all her rings on. Ouch. Vampires aren’t known for being gentle. Well, maybe those sparkly, wussy ones.
I once had an encounter with a bloke who was with the Spanish Inquisition. No Monty Python fun here. Torture isn’t officially allowed on an adept, but with our new Rani, Giulietta, anything goes. The change I’d like to see is Giulietta’s head at the business end of my knife.
DV: And what is it you do now?
CM: Mia tells all about my exploits in servant of the Goddess. Let’s just say that I take heads now instead of give…well you get the drift.
DV: Who trained you in your new occupation?
CM: I’ve had excellent teachers in New York. Mia is quite the swordswoman. Philip and Shieh have taught me martial arts. My dance training comes in handy here. They call me a living weapon. I rather like that.
DV: I'm not surprised. Do you have a significant other in your life?
CM: With my omnivorous sexual nature it’s rather difficult to settle. I get around-- a lot. But there are two lovers who mean something more to me than a congenial shag.
My darling Mia is the earthly manifestation of Shakti in the form of Durga, and I’m her “tiger” servant. Grrr…we do get a bit rough sometimes. I love a strong woman.
However, I must say that Lord Liu remains a powerful presence in my life. You’ve got to love a Chinese warrior from the former Han Dynasty turned scholar turned Immortyl elder. He’s deep. And dare I say sexy?
DV: So, where do you go from here? Any last secrets to reveal?
CM: I won't tell all. I did that in My Fearful Symmetry. They will just have to read my saucy tale and Mia’s new one, Servant of the Goddess. With my new line of work, it’s hard to say where I go from here. I’m on a secret mission at the moment. So, I can’t say exactly what I’m about—or as you Yanks say—what I’m up to. If I survive this mad quest, I hope to continue to aid Mia and Kurt in their mission to find a cure for this condition that makes us perish in the ultraviolet and addicted to blood.
And you have promised some steamy tales. Of course, I will still be blogging and interviewing on Saturdays. I can’t disappoint my darlings.
Well, I suppose if the nice boys and girls leave me a saucy comment and a contact email, we could send them a link and coupon code for the free ebook of Annals of the Immorytls. That’s a-n-n-a-l-s—not a-n-a-l-s. There’s a short in there about yours truly.
DV: Cedric blogs at Immortyl Revolution on “Sexy Saturdays with Cedric”. Yes, I did indeed create a monster. He’s a social media whore. Here is one of his posts, Everything I Need to Know I Learned From David Bowie. You can chat with Cedric @cedricMackinnon on Twitter or at his Facebook page https://www.facebook.com/cedricvampire
Blurb: Servant of the Goddess
Can an Immortyl Society survive the modern world?
From the ashes of the first battle of the Immortyl Revolution, vampires Mia Disantini and Kurt Eisen set out to build a new Immortyl society. Trouble arrives in the person of Cedric MacKinnon, a runaway adept of the ancient arts, who brings tidings of upheaval at the chief elder’s court that threatens everything Mia and Kurt have accomplished. Mia finds it hard to resist when Cedric pledges his service and tempts her with the legendary skills he learned as an Immortyl courtesan. Facing opposition from both within and out, Mia begins to doubt Kurt is up to the task of leading their followers to his vision of an Immortyl Utopia. Torn between her loyalty to Kurt and Cedric’s insistence that she is the earthly manifestation of the Goddess Durga and destined to lead, Mia confronts the greatest challenge of her life.
Excerpt Servant of the Goddess:
Sudden shouts battled against the sound of the wind. I peered down the block. Teen-formed Immortyls, sewer rats, closed a circle around a tall male, who held his hands high above his head. From the direction of the wind, I couldn’t yet ascertain this stranger as mortal or Immortyl. Best to investigate. I ran toward the disturbance, wrapping my fingers around the Glock strapped to my hip.
A shrill whistle split the air. Two of the sewer rats lunged for the stranger. He crouched and pirouetted on one leg, letting loose a rapid succession of kicks that knocked his attackers sprawling onto the sidewalk. A rat named Tommy growled and launched himself at the stranger. To my amazement, the stranger leapt high into the air and hovered there for a moment like a falcon before lashing out with both feet. Tommy’s head snapped backward, and he flattened against the pavement. The remaining rats hung back.
The slender figure of a boy maybe eighteen or nineteen touched down and crouched again, poised to strike. No mortal could perform such maneuvers with this speed and agility, not to mention almost ballet-like grace. The Immortyl’s face betrayed raw emotion, indicating he was new to the blood, probably not much older than his form suggested. Eamon, the rat pack leader, drew and aimed a pistol at him. The stranger raised his hands above his head once more.
I gave a sharp whistle for Eamon to stand down. “What’s going on here?”
Eamon lowered the gun and spit on the ground. His forever-twelve-year-old face scrunched up. “We found this one skulking about,” he said. Even after a century and half in New York his speech still gave away his Dublin origins. “Says he’s come from the chief elder’s house.”
The wind kicked up harder. Long, auburn hair whipped about the newcomer’s face. He shivered, hugging an Indian-styled shirt around him. Traces of black kohl and sienna rouge clung to his eyes and mouth, as if he’d scrubbed the paint off in a hurry. The make-up and impractical clothing pointed to origins more exotic than the russet hair and milky complexion suggested. His story sounded plausible. However, the odds that this kid had escaped the chief elder’s compound near Calcutta and made it all the way to New York on his own were unlikely. No slave had ever left there of his own accord.
Kurt had stood trial at the chief elder’s court for inciting rebellion. He’d told me that the chief, Kalidasa, employed state-of-the-art security, as well as vampire-eating tigers. The place was a veritable fortress. Still, there was always a first time, and this newcomer had held his own against Eamon’s band.
I had to admire the kid for standing up to Eamon and his thugs.
The pack leader and I didn’t care much for one another, but he’d fought for Kurt in our recent war with a rival elder. For political reasons, I forced myself to take a civil tone with him. “Did you bother to ask his business before you ordered an attack?” I called to the newcomer, “You--come here.”
The boy lowered his hands and slinked forward. I’d never seen a man move quite like this, with delicacy just brushing the feminine, yet suggesting coiled up, sinewy strength like a jungle cat. Instinct prompted my hand to reach for the Glock concealed on my hip. The kid had danger scrawled all over him in big garish letters.
“Is this true?” I asked.
“I ran away from court,” the boy replied, his speech tinged with a Scottish burr. “I’m seeking refuge here.”
The plaintive tone struck a chord in me. I sized him up again. His winsome looks didn’t belong to the usual brand of vampire assassin, but to a household slave chosen for his decorative value. Still, his swift feet could kill if given the chance. Wouldn’t it be just like Giulietta to send death in such an appealing guise?
“Kurt’s counselor, Chase Powers, can vouch for me,” he continued. “Take me to him.”
“You know Chase?”
“We met in India during Kurt’s trial. He said I’d be welcome here. Please Miss. You have to believe me. I’ve come such a long way and got nowhere else to go.” Desperation filled the spooky, green eyes. They almost glowed, more like a cat’s than a man’s. “There’s probably a bounty offered for my return by now.”
“What did you do?”
“It’s not what I did. It’s what I am.” He held out his hands. Henna tattoos snaked around the wrists and tops, elaborate whirls and spirals. “The marks of my order. I’m an adept of the ancient arts.”
He was an adept? I’d always imagined these temple devotees and de facto courtesans as Indian in origin. I gave the boy a closer look. His clothing had seen better days, but the sinuous way he moved made them a fashion statement. You couldn’t deny the perfection of feature and figure required of his order. He stood out from Eamon’s mangy lot like an emerald in a box of Cracker Jacks.
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